


it’d be slow, your unravelling

by rcndition



Category: Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Biting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, F/M, Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Sexual Content, Implied stabbing, Kidnapping, NSFW, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader Insert, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rcndition/pseuds/rcndition
Summary: “It’d be slow.” He murmurs, almost breathless, the only waver that shows he’s enjoying this. “Remember that? I said it’d be slow, your unravelling. Do you think it was slow?”
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	it’d be slow, your unravelling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feelingjaded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelingjaded/gifts).



> happy christmas (& late birthday) bestie. ilysm

There isn’t much time, but he doesn’t need much anyway. 

It’s crumbling, the charade, tearing itself from the inside out in crumpled piles of makeshift bars and fake illusions. His affection for you is crumbling, too; you both know it.

It has to be this way, you tell yourself, even as he resorts to mindless slaps and words spewed like venom from between his lips. He sounds harsher, more frantic, like his sanity’s unravelling on a thread right in front of your eyes and you’re tied to a chair, doing nothing to stop the plan rolling away from his feet.

He slams a hand down on the table and you flinch lightly, enough to pull at the rope binding your hands between the chair, but not violent enough that it catches Quentin’s eye. He’s been pacing back and forth for almost twenty minutes, growing more angrily frustrated as the clock ticks closer.

Someone’s coming for you. Coming to ‘ _rescue_ ’ you. You don’t know what they’ll look like or what they’ll smell like but you do know that they won’t have eyes as starkly blue as the sea, won’t smell like whiskey and coffee when they crawl over you, won’t hold you down while you scream and writhe and convince yourself that you want it, no you don’t, you don’t want it, but you do, you so do-

“Your thoughts are loud.” He spits, and you cross your legs tighter. He’s looking at you again, watching the gentle bounce of your left knee, eyes trailing down to your bare thighs, risen in goosebumps in the cold of the basement.

There’s nothing beautiful about it here. There’s nothing gentle and sweet and loving about being tied to a chair in a cold clammy basement with rope around your arms and a gag in your mouth. There’s nothing you should wish to remember about this place, nothing you should ache for anymore.

But you _do_. He steps closer and you _whine_ , body trembling in anticipation; it’s been a week since he’s touched you, a week since he pressed you against the wall and made you cum so many times you couldn’t feel anything but his lips against your neck. A week since he last made it clear he didn’t love you.

It’s sick, how badly your body aches for him. How, even after all this, the death, the destruction, the rape, the abuse, how you want him to step closer and just _touch_ you, touch you in that way only he knows how, bring you to the edge so many times you forget all about whoever’s coming to ‘rescue’ you.

“I should never have kept you.” He muses quietly when he’s close enough, pressing his thumb against your tongue. You instinctively strain your lips against the gap, whining as you do, wanting to close your lips around him and suck him and take in the comfort of having him touch you again. “All you do is create problems.”

You choke off on a whine when his hand moves quickly to wrap around your throat, so tight that you can’t even suck in a slither of breath. He’s looking at you with those cold, calculating eyes of his, no emotion, no love. Still, you think, as you close your eyes and moan breathlessly, you’d take a hundred loveless lifetimes with him than even a split second with someone else.

“What are you going to give me before you go?” He hums, one hand stroking your dirty hair from your face. He toys with it between his fingers, pulling this way and that while the hand around your neck falters.

Voice raspy and choked, you manage a gargled whine that you hope sounds like “ _please don’t_.”. It always makes him angrier, makes him slam you down into the concrete and fuck you so hard that you can’t do anything but lie there and cry; makes him feral, animalistic.

He looks you directly in the eyes, flicking between each, and spits directly onto your face, smudging it into the hair at the side of your face. You know that he’d sooner ruin you than show you any affection, but you still whimper against the flinch, silently begging him to touch you.

And he does, just perhaps not in the way you’d expected. He presses his fingers between your legs, nothing between his flesh and yours, and leans to bite at the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

“I’d kill you.” He murmurs, and you know he would. “But then they wouldn’t see what fun we had.”

He pushes his fingers into you at the same time his teeth graze over a semi open bite wound, his lips working around it until blood starts to trickle its way in a gentle path to your collarbone. It feels hot and cold all over, the feeling of bugs crawling on your skin enough of a reminder of why you should hate the things he’s doing to you.

He curls his fingers upward in that expert way he knows how and watches you gasp, mouth gaping open, lips tight against the open circle of a gag. He holds you there, just for a minute, teetering on the edge of grinding down and crying.

“They need the reminder.” He growls, moving again, his fingers never slowing past a bruising pace. He always has to do thinks quickly, always has to be here and there and everywhere all at once, never taking his time with anything but his plan. When you look at him with teary eyes, it’s like staring at God himself.

You learn what he means when his thumb grazes over your clit and you arch back into the chair, his lips now against the permanent scar just above your navel. He’s on his knees, gazing at it, his thumb immediately removing itself when he realises the pleasure it brings you.

He’s staring at the smile he gave you. A stab wound, pushed and pulled and carved into a permanent upwards curve, stretching from your navel to the right side of your ribs. It’s what brought you here, what made you gentle enough to bring down without a fight. You remember bleeding on him, remember someone stitching you up, remember the way he’d sneer and press at it when you did something he didn’t like.

You remember _hating_ him, even, remember a time where you wanted nothing more than to punch him in his stupid face and run as far as you could with two broken ankles that never healed correctly. You’re not sure how far you’d get, not even now.

“Get up.” He mumbles and you push yourself forward, back bending so your face is close to his. He pulls his fingers from you, wiping them on the bottom of his suit leg, and gives you a look halfway between desire and disgust.

He doesn’t bother giving you instructions. You let him manhandle you till you’re on the floor, pathetic little screams and cries escaping your open mouth as the cold concrete aggravates some of the wounds he left you. He slaps you once, hard, and you go quiet.

“Give them something to gawk at.” He spits out between his teeth, mumbling to himself, riling himself up. You squirm, just a little, and he catches you with his hand, blue eyes violent and angry. 

Your breath catches. He’s undoing that stupid costume he always wears, the one with a zipper right where it’s needed most, and he’s palming himself half through the material and you’re crying because, _fuck_ , it’s happening again. 

It’s like no matter how many times it happens, no matter how much you think you’ve gotten over it, every time he gives you that look and pulls you towards him and _fucks you_ , you turn into the same, traumatised little girl he first abused. You turn into a crying, shaking, screaming little thing that he hates, that he wants to fuck and kill and hurt and damage so badly that it overtakes him, curses through his veins until there’s nothing more for him to do than to make sure you feel it in every way he does.

“You never stop fucking crying.” He spits, but his eyebrows are furrowed and his hand is moving faster, breaths short and choppy as you squirm and try to crawl away on your back. “Always making fucking noise, fucking whiny bitch.”

He leans down then and you cower away, his breath making your whole body cover itself in goosebumps. He doesn’t smell so good now, doesn’t look so attractive, doesn’t seem so stable.

But oh god he’s _Quentin_. He’s insane and gorgeous and so terrifying that you let out a little squeak when his left hand wraps around both your wrists, enclosing them tightly between his own grip. You push, just once, testing, and give up when you realise it’s futile to even bother to try.

He fists a hand in your hair and pulls, hard enough that you yelp sharply and a fresh new set of tears starts to stream down your face. You hadn’t even noticed that his cock was on the inside of your thigh until he moves, and you choke on your own spit.

He laughs, low and mean and degrading, as you choke and cry and try to piece together a scream that’ll gather the attention of someone, anyone. He’s going to do it again and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you -

“If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’ll shove this knife so far down your throat that you throw up your own tonsils.” He seethes and you believe every single word that falls from his lips.

There’s nothing to stop him, no one around. He’d kill you without a second thought and then get off to the warbled screams of you dying - he’s just sick like that. 

Abandoning your wrists in favour of spitting on his fingers, he thumbs apart your legs, running his slick fingers between your folds, relishing in the way you cry so openly. You used to be scared to make a noise, scared of what he’d do, but you’ve long since realised he gets off on the way you cry and scream.

You’re barely catching your breath when he presses into you, never once giving you warning or time to adjust or time to writhe into a position somewhere near comfortable, and then he just _takes_.

That’s all he knows how. He takes and takes and takes and never gives and he takes some more and expects you to stay at his feet, licking his boots like a trained dog. 

He’s practically rocking you against the floor, using you like a rag doll that he can fuck all his anger into, bruising and unforgiving and relentless. His hips meet your clit and your breath catches, stomach churning as he grinds down into you, deeper than you ever thought possible. 

What the hell were you thinking? There’s no way you could stay here, no way you _enjoy_ this. He’s taking everything from you without ever asking if it was okay, ignoring your screams and protests and tears in favour of fucking you so hard you can’t even remember your own name. One of his thrusts reaches far, his cock dragging back against the inside of your walls, and you push back into him, whining a gargled moan through your permanently open mouth.

He leans down to unclasp the gag, letting it fall around your neck as he sucks gently at a bruise there, his thigh rubbing against an open bite wound on the inside of your own, pain and pleasure and pleasure and pain mixing together until it all feels the same and there’s nothing separating the blurred line between them.

“It’d be slow.” He murmurs, almost breathless, the only waver that shows he’s enjoying this. “Remember that? I said it’d be slow, your unravelling. Do you think it was slow?” 

You respond with a carelessly placed cry, and he smacks you on the cheek again, the skin underneath it burning.

“Answer me when I fucking talk to you.” He growls, body draped across yours like a heavy blanket. His thrusts are wavered, uncalculated, so out of character that it’s almost unnerving. You feel your stomach flip as his hand twists in your hair, a warning hidden underneath the movement.

“Yes.” You breathe out, body twitching as he pushes you further into the ground, not caring that it’s scraping your back and your sides and opening old wounds. “I remember.”

“And was it slow?”

You take a moment to suck in a breath, wincing at how loud the choked off sob sounds in the almost empty room.

“No.” 

And you’re crying so hard it almost sounds like a scream that never ends, crying and choking and you _hate_ the way Quentin’s lips stretch into a manic smile and his hand pulls at your hair and how your stomach flips with the early clamber of an orgasm and you hate it, you hate it, you _hate it_. 

“I said you’d take time to break. But that wasn’t true, was it?”

He’s mocking you, words rolling off his tongue like it’s second nature to him. He sounds _mean_ , piercing and evil and merciless as he pushes you further into the floor.

“You came apart so easily.” He murmurs, and moves a hand to touch you, finally. “You still do.”

He’s so good at this, so good at everything he does because he can’t stand being anything less than perfect at anything. You figured out early on that that included sex, out of everything.

“Cum.” He says, voice void of emotion. His fingers are moving about your clit in a somewhat gentle symphony with the rhythm of his hips, and even though your thighs are shaking and your stomach is clenching around itself, you can’t give it to him, you can’t, you can’t, you-

He growls and smacks your head into the floor with the hand still thrusted in your hair, spitting down at you. It lands on your cheek and he grinds your head down into the ground, using it to leverage himself as he drives his hips forwards even quicker than before. 

“I don’t think you understood, honey.” He says. “That was a fucking order.”

And you’re gone. Your eyes roll back into your head as you let him work you through it, tears streaming down your face, a scream ripping its way through your throat and choking itself off when it reaches air. Your body twitches its way through the orgasm, because Quentin’d never touch you, never help you through it.

“Good girl.” He murmurs, and you cry harder, the pain of leaving him so much that it hurts. You want him, want him to love you and fuck you and do whatever he wants to you as long as you can just stay here, just stay here for as long as possible in this blissfully fucked out state.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum. He’s worked up and angry and in a rush and you feel him still, the gentle growl that you’ve grown accustomed to, vibrating against your ear. He pulls out so quickly that your stomach rolls with the empty feeling overtaking your body and keeps you still with a smack to your cheek and a hand between your breasts.

When he’s cum over you with a low moan, painted against the scars on your stomach and your ribs, he leans over, breathing in your ear, loud, too loud, too real, and suddenly the fantasty’s broken and you’re back on the floor and he’s inside you and he’s _raping_ you.

“Off.” You gargle. “G’off.”

“Oh honey.” He chuckles, low and terrifying. You look to the side, swallowing down bile as he leans in close and smells your, his nose trailing along your collarbone. “I wanna keep you.” 

Your stomach flips.

Half of you fills with terror, another, irritating, part of you overcome with lust at the though of staying here, of staying with him. He taps you on the cheek, just to remind you that he’s there, and you whimper.

He sighs and crawls up over you, hovering just above your chest. You panic, writhing between his weight, but he just keeps a hand in your hair, using your cheeks to dry his cock.

It’s degrading, downright humiliating, as he uses your flesh and tears to dry him of sweat and cum and the tiniest speck of blood that makes you cry harder. When he pulls away, he watches your face for a while, dry cum smeared along your cheeks and your lips, eyebrows knitted together in fear, eyes so wide and filled to the brim with tears. 

“Yeah.” He says with a grin, a thumb rubbing over your cheekbone. “I think I will.”

He rolls his eyes and stands to shrug on the suit again, tucking himself back in.

“Get up.” He says, and you scramble to your feet immediately, clumsily tripping as you do. 

You stand for a minute, watching him watching you as you shake and tremble and cry in front of him. He shakes his head, tutting, and walks over to you, pulling you towards him by the wrist when you flinch away.

“Always crying.” He murmurs. “Always fucking crying.”

He presses his lips to your forehead, lets you lean into him, and then smacks you straight across the face, sending you keeling over to the chair. The laugh that follows is low and mean, completely merciless and painful to hear.

“I can’t.” You choke, voice raspy with misuse. “I need to go.”

Quentin turns as he reaches the table, genuine shock on his face, the collar you wear in one hand, the leash in the other. He cocks his head and jingles the collar teasingly, letting it ring out until you cringe.

“You don’t wanna come? You don’t _want to_?” He spits, growling low. His face is morphing, changing from angry to collected and back again.

“Hm.” He hums. “Okay.”

He drops the collar and leash on the floor, cocking an eyebrow at you. He kicks them so they skid to your feet, and motions behind him to the open door, so long down the corridor.

“Go on then. Get the fuck out. Dirty no good whore like you. Doubt you’d last long out there, looking that that.”

You look at him, and then at the collar, and then down the corridor to the open door, the light of freedom shining bright in your eyes. Quentin’s turned back to the table now, humming to himself, packing up the last of his things before he moves.

He’s finished grabbing the last of the rope when he hears a jangle behind him, coming from somewhere close. He turns, half expectance written across his face, and finds you kneeling behind him, the collar clasped around your throat, the leash in between your teeth.

You look up at him with teary eyes, and offer him the leash.

He smiles.


End file.
